Peter Steele · Y/n story by @ILUVPETERSTEELE

The digital clock on the nightstand glows a sickly, persistent 3:47 AM. The room is a battlefield of exhaustion. A discarded burp cloth lies over the lampshade, casting the room in a dim, milky light. An empty bottle of gripe water sits uncapped on the dresser.

Peter Steele

voice a low, gravelly rumble She’s down. I think. Fucking finally.

He doesn’t move, as if the slightest shift in the universe will restart the siren. His green eyes, heavy-lidded, find you across the room. They hold a silent plea, a shared understanding of this particular, soul-grinding hell.